


You Weren't There

by Jevvica



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends as Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Musketeers Fest 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:37:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5275061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jevvica/pseuds/Jevvica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Then why are you here?  After three years, what changed?  Why come back?”</p><p>Wasn’t that the question?  </p><p>The thing that had plagued him for weeks before he left the monastery and the weeks since his return.  He didn’t have a simple answer.  Perhaps it was a mercy they had not pressed him for a reason sooner than this.  They had just welcomed him back.  He didn’t deserve for it to be so easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Weren't There

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been working on this story for months, off and on. 
> 
> I have not been quiet in my displeasure over Aramis’ behavior in Season 2. And there are S3 photos that made it look possible that Aramis did not go to war.  
> And I got even angrier. Even though I may be interpreting those pictures incorrectly, I could not let it go. I am still mad at Aramis.  
> But.  
> Porthos has a big heart. And so he and I argued. For months.  
> Here is the result.
> 
> Takes place sometime after the war and on the possibility that Aramis did not re-join the Musketeers for it.
> 
>  
> 
> I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------  
“Sometimes absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder.  
Sometimes it just makes the heart hurt.”  
― A.J. Compton  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Aramis cut away the shreds of Porthos’ shirt. The wound would be near that axe injury, high on his right shoulder. Thankfully, the big man was already out. Aramis had already opened his mouth to call for water and cloth when he lifted away the blood soaked fabric and froze.

The old scar he remembered well, narrow and even from the stitches he himself had put there, was gone. 

Obliterated. Covered. Buried beneath new.

Nearly the entire surface of Porthos’ back was covered in ridges of scars.

The straight, raised marks crisscrossed over skin that once Aramis had known like his own. They wrapped around his ribs and over his sides. Dark and layered, they were years old. 

Years Aramis had lost. 

That he’d forfeit.

Something terrible had happened to his friend.

“Aramis.” He looked up at d’Artagnan and realized the young man had been calling his name. “You okay to do this?” 

Aramis squeezed his shaking hands to fists and nodded quickly.

“Of course. My kit, if you please.”

 

____________________________________________

 

Aramis stepped outside and leaned against the wall. His hands were trembling again, but the stitching was done. Amamis wiped at his stinging eyes and looked at d’Artagnan as he joined him in the cool evening air.

“What happened?”

It was impossible to name all the emotions that flashed across d’Artagnan’s face, but the one that settled and stayed was anger.

“He can tell you if he wants. But I won’t.”

“Why not?” he asked, stepping closer. D’Artagnan surprised him by closing the distance, meeting the challenge.

“Because you weren’t there! It’s not a good story, Aramis. It’s long and it’s awful and you didn’t have to see him...see him like that. You’ve no right to it unless Porthos decides you do. Though I doubt he’ll tell you. He wouldn’t want to cause you pain.”

“But you do,” said Aramis quietly. D’Artagnan took a deep breath and backed away. He studied Aramis for a moment.

“No,” he said finally. “But I would have you understand what you did when you left us.”

“I did not set out to leave you, d’Artagnan. Surely, you must see that distancing myself from the regiment was to avoid the scandal. To avoid any doubt being cast upon the Musketeers.”

“Then why are you here? After three years, what changed? Why come back?”

Wasn’t that the question? 

The thing that had plagued him for weeks before he left the monastery and the weeks since his return. He didn’t have a simple answer. Perhaps it was a mercy they had not pressed him for a reason sooner than this. They had just welcomed him back. He didn’t deserve for it to be so easy. 

“I had to go,” said Aramis. “I had to. I was...I will never explain it to you in a way that will bring you satisfaction, because I barely understand it myself. And for a time, it was the right thing. And then it wasn’t.”

“You’re right,” agreed d’Artagnan as he walked away. “There is no satisfaction in that.”

 

_____________________________________________

 

Athos looked up from the seemingly endless piles of papers on his desk as Aramis entered his office.

“How is he?”

“He should be alright,” said Aramis. “It was a fairly clean wound.” He ran a hand roughly through his hair and sat down. Athos waited. Aramis was clearly working up to something.

“The stab was high on his shoulder. Where that axe wound was. Remember? Bonnaire?”

Athos frowned. Unlikely he’d forget the smell of his friend’s blood mixing with the dust of the life he’d left.

Aramis watched him very closely and then Athos understood. It was piece of their history that Aramis had no place in and no knowledge of. A piece that Athos prefered buried.

Porthos’ back.

“Did d’Artagnan tell you?” asked Athos evenly.

“He wouldn’t. He is clearly angry and would wield it like a weapon. And I would not force Porthos to tell me. I trust you, Athos, to give me the truth.”

“Are you certain you want it?”

“I need to know.”

Athos sat perfectly still for a long moment before he spoke.

“It was the early days of the war. Porthos was captured while out scouting. He was in the hands of the Spanish for nearly three days before we found them. They tortured him.” Athos fought to keep his voice steady. “Whipped him.”

Aramis went pale. Athos pressed on.

“He wouldn’t speak. Not to me or d’Artagnan. No one. Growls and snarls, but not a word. I think in part, it was sickness. A fever had set in and he didn’t know us. But I also think he locked himself down so hard against the Spanish, so determined not to give up any information, that he could not let go.” Athos let his eyes lower to the table. “His back was in tatters. With the infection...we nearly despaired of him.”

Athos let the tale settle with Aramis. He focused on the sounds of sparring in the yard. The voices of his men. Anything not to fall back into the memory of those days. Endless hours with a war still to be fought and no heart left to do it. Not with Porthos, silent and suffering, a few tents away.

“There’s something else.” Athos looked up quickly. Aramis’ dark eyes were sharp and shadowed. “Something you are not telling me.”

“Aramis…”

“No. D’Artagnan would not be so angry. You would not be so gentle. Some part of this has to fall on me.”

Athos sighed. D’Artagnan was angry. He could not understand how Aramis could turn his back on the regiment, on France, on honor. He still had so much passion. Athos was mostly just tired.

“In the height of his fever and delirium, he called out for you. And then he did not speak again. Not for days, not even after the infection was tamed and he came back to himself. It took months for his back to heal, but that was not the part of him I feared for.”

“It’s my fault.” Athos could see the clouds building behind Aramis’ eyes. The kind of storm that led to flipped tables and shattered doors. 

“It isn’t.”

“What else?” asked Aramis, his voice rising.

“There is nothing else.”

“What else?!”

“Stop!” Athos slammed the flat of his hand onto the table. “I will not give you every horrible detail so that you can use it to torture yourself.”

“Don’t I deserve it?” Aramis’ voice fell to a strangled whisper. “Have I not earned a punishment? I wasn’t here when he needed me! How many other times could I have been of use, had I not tried to flee the world?”

“Would you have been any use if you hadn’t?”

Aramis stopped, stunned.

“Distracted? Conflicted?” continued Athos. “How much havoc was wrought that year before you left? I will not say all of it was your fault. There were plots and schemes that none of us saw. But there were also mistakes and secrets, Aramis. Lies that cost people their lives, or nearly so. Do you think I wanted you, or anyone else, dead on a battlefield because of your turmoil over the Queen?” Athos leaned forward and continued quietly. “You and I both know what happens when our past mistakes come back to the people we care about. I don’t fault you for leaving. I never did. And I certainly don’t seek to reprimand you for it now.”

“The Queen, the Dauphin, the regiment. I wanted to protect everyone.” The fire was gone now and Aramis looked worn out. “I didn’t know how else to do it.” Athos settled back in his chair with a sigh.

“I know that. And Porthos and d’Artagnan know that, on some level. The problem lies in that we are not the sort who accept protection easily.” Athos allowed himself a small smile. “It’s a trait that seems to lead us to more than our fair share of strife.” 

______________________________________________

 

“I know you are not thinking of getting up.”

Porthos froze at the edge of the bed, his feet already resting on the floor.

“An’ if I was?”

“I’d say I’d love to see you try, but I’m in no mood to fix those stitches.” Porthos grumbled, but didn’t try to stand.

Aramis sat behind him and focused on the task at hand, not the old wounds that had healed without him. He peeled away the fabric and examined injury.

The needlework was sound and there was no sign of infection. Aramis carefully wound a new bandage around Porthos’ shoulder and chest. When he was done he, let his palm rest lightly on Porthos’ spine, against the thickest of the scars.

Porthos straightened with realization, stiff and tense. Waiting.

Aramis wanted to know what his friend had suffered. Aramis needed to understand how else he had failed. But he could not find the words or the courage to ask.

He held his tongue and let the questions travel through the warmth of his hand.

With a pained sigh, Porthos sagged as Aramis gently trailed his fingers down the ruins of his back. The tension slowly bled away and Aramis memorized the new terrain of his skin. 

“You know,” rumbled Porthos eventually, “I usually forget about ‘em.”

“You forget,” echoed Aramis.

“Can’t see ‘em. Don’t hurt anymore.” Porthos took a deep breath and turned his head just enough to see Aramis. “S’pose you want to know what happened.”

“Yes. But don’t tell me. I know enough. And you owe me nothing.” Porthos looked away. Aramis got up and came around the bed to face Porthos. He knelt on the floor before him like the penitent he felt he should be.

Porthos looked down at him with a conflicted expression.

“I don’t know what to think of you bein’ back.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure I do either.”

“You just blow in and out, like the wind. And nobody bats an eye. Like it’s natural.”

“You don’t understand-”. Porthos laughed, short and sharp.

“Oh no? ‘Cause I’ve never left my home and my friends to become somethin’ else?” He tightened his jaw. “It wasn’t easy. Not for me.”

“Porthos…”

“You know what the difference is between you and me?,” snapped Porthos. “When I left the Court, I asked Charon and Flea to come with me.”

Aramis fumbled for a moment at the change and at the image, trying to imagine Porthos in a monastery.

“You wouldn’t have come! You love the Musketeers. And how could I ask you to leave it?” 

“I knew they wouldn’t come either,” said Porthos steadily. “But I had to try. ‘Cause I wanted them with me. ‘Cause I wanted them to know it wasn’t them I was leavin’.” He looked at Aramis. “You lied to me. To everyone. People died. And then you left. You have your reasons. The things you decided were worth it. Just none of those things was me.” The words were like a knife to Aramis’ heart. He could not bear the sadness he saw in Porthos, but he could not look away. 

“That isn’t true.”

“It was about the Queen and the Dauphin.”

“Yes, but not only them. Do not think,” pleaded Aramis, “for one moment, that I ever wanted to hurt you. That I wanted to leave. Walking away was possibly the single most difficult thing I have ever had to do.”

“No.” Porthos shook his head. “No, I think leaving was easier for you. Easier to leave us than to stay away from her.”

Aramis opened his mouth to deny it, but couldn’t. He tried another angle.

“There was deceit and plotting and death. And it could have been worse. God, Porthos, it could have been worse! Against all odds and hope, you and Anne and Constance and even my own wretched self survived. You are not wrong. Staying away from Anne...the Dauphin...was hard. I could have remained and failed. Or I could leave, offer my service to the God who spared me and live sure of the fact that, while you might die, it would not be because of me.” Aramis let his chin drop to his chest. “Not because of me.”

“Why couldn’t you just tell me all that? Instead of just walkin’ away?”

“I didn’t understand then. I’m not certain I do now. I just...there was this panic. This caged bird in my chest that wouldn’t stop fluttering. I promised God, chained in that dungeon, that I would give it all up. It was the only thing I could think to do. It might have been too simple a solution, but never think it was easy.”

Aramis lifted his eyes to find Porthos studying him. Not angry, just thoughtful. 

“Three years, two months, and four days. And you’re back. What for?”

Aramis had abandoned his friends and his loves and his honor. To save them all, or so he had hoped. He didn’t feel changed. He wasn’t sure he was better armed to face the temptations he’d left. And now he crouched before a man he’d hurt. A man he’d betrayed. 

A man who remembered and counted every single day Aramis had been gone.

“You...Porthos, of all the men and women I have encountered, you know who you are. You always have. But I...I’m not certain I have ever known. I was a soldier and I was good at it, but I wasn’t good. Then I was a priest and it was peaceful, but I never found peace. I cannot be a husband or a father. The only roles I ever truly loved were Musketeer and brother. And I walked away from both. I don’t know how to get them back. Or if I even deserve to.”

Aramis reached out and then stopped himself, uncertain his touch was welcome. He settled for moving a few inches closer.

“So I did what every child does when they are adrift and afraid. I came home.” Porthos made hurt sound, but Aramis pushed on. “I know it’s been years and I’ve missed so much. I can’t apologize for leaving. I had to. For myself, for God...and yes, for her. But I am sorry I wasn’t here. I can never apologize enough for not being here when you needed me.”

“You say you left for our safety,” said Porthos. “See, thing is, I didn’t need that. I only ever needed my friend.”

Aramis forced a breath past the choking sob that threatened to burst from him.

“Athos may have said something similar,” Aramis managed to say. “About how badly we accept protection.”

“The captain is getting wise in his dotage.” Aramis barked a surprised laugh.

“I’d tell him you said so, but I just finished sewing you back together.” Porthos’ smile faded.

“I forgive you.”

The words were heavy and deliberate. Like it was the hardest thing Porthos had ever said.

Maybe it was.

But it was real and true and the thing Aramis had longed for.

“I don’t deserve it.”

“No,” agreed Porthos. “But I’m tired of carrying it around.” He closed his eyes and looked far older than his years. “’M tired, Aramis.”

He couldn’t stop himself then. Aramis gently palmed Porthos’ cheek, his thumb tracing yet another new scar he did not know the story of.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know and I cannot change yesterday or even today. Only thing I can hope to change is what happens tomorrow.” 

Porthos let out a sigh and then leaned into Aramis’ hand. The connection warmed him until the big man tipped forward and nearly onto the floor.

“Back in bed with you.” He helped Porthos lie down, careful not to put any pressure on his back. When Porthos was settled on his side, Aramis remained sitting on the floor, his eyes level with Porthos. Porthos blinked at him sleepily, thoughtfully.

Aramis wrapped his fingers around the edge of the mattress and settled his chin on them. And waited for whatever it was Porthos was pondering.

“You think this is home?”

“The only one I have. Wherever you are,” declared Aramis. Porthos smirked, but it was wistful.

“You afraid?”

“Hmm?”

“Came back ‘cause you were afraid?”

“I was, of so many things,” answered Aramis, sliding his hand into Porthos’, squeezing it firmly. “But I’m not anymore.” He watched Porthos’ eyes slide closed and stay. His breath evened out and the pain lines smoothed. Aramis whispered the lie again and hoped to believe it. “I’m not anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?  
> Should I write the story of what happened to Porthos?  
> I want to. But I don’t.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [While We Survived](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5992270) by [Jevvica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jevvica/pseuds/Jevvica)




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